


I DID Lie To You (But Not About <3ing U)

by meh_guh



Category: Would I Lie To You? RPF
Genre: Bad Sex, M/M, aliens made them not do it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 07:41:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2804801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meh_guh/pseuds/meh_guh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David Mitchell's tiny, insignificant, absolutely-not-a-problem crush on Charlie Brooker takes a turn for the absurd after a Would I Lie To You episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I DID Lie To You (But Not About <3ing U)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [healingmirth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/healingmirth/gifts).



> Happy and safe holiday season to you, healingmirth! I ran with your soulbond prompt because it made me laugh so hard I had to physically remove myself from the computer until the choked laughing died down to manageable levels. I hope you get all your seasonal wishes :D

'Possession,' David's already reaching for the box by the time Brydon's explaining what to do. 'This is my alien artefact.'

The twisted lump of metal he pulls out of the box to set on the desk actually manages to make Charlie Brooker sit forward from his aggressive sprawl. Or possibly it's the explanation. Either way, it sends a flush of pleased embarrassment down his spine just like every time he gets Brooker to react. Brooker's reactions are always so very _genuine_ , like he hasn't got a hold of the English ideal of control. Of course, also just like every time the pleasure is chased away by an even stronger flush of pure embarrassment.

'True,' Lee says, slapping a hand on his own desk. 'If anyone was kidnapped by Martians and sent straight home with a souvenir, it'd be Mitchell.'

'What,' David rallies, pushing the embarrassment to one side. 'You think I wouldn't be worth probing?'

'Well, we could test that out backstage a bit later,' Brooker says, pausing for the inevitable delighted catcalls from the audience. 'But I think we can all agree you'd have politely thanked them for their trouble and then never spoken about it again.'

' _Were_ you probed?' Sarah Millican asks, leaning her head to one side and peering through her glasses. 'Because that would explain a lot.'

David huffs a theatrical breath through his nostrils and gives Sarah his Disappointed Geography Master look. 'I don't know _what_ you're implying, but it sounds slanderous.'

'Part of a spaceship, is it?' David Harewood twirls a pen around his fingers and grins. 'Ray gun component? Alien mobile?'

David folds his arms. 'A segment of hull shot off in low-atmosphere manoeuvres, actually.'

Brooker barks a laugh and braces his forearms on his desk, looking ready to leap up and over it if he's not stopped. 'Were we almost obliterated by your alien overlords?'

' _Obviously_ ,' David says, repositioning the artefact so he can see the odd burn-marks running along the short edge. 'It's a piece of something I found in a field as a child-'

'LIE!' Lee bellows. 'You never went outside, even for imaginary aliens.'

' _Especially_ for imaginary aliens,' Sarah puts in. 'What sort of aliens would've been doing spaceship burnouts over David's field? Green yobbos, that's who.'

'Coming to nice sectors and behaving like _utter_ hooligans,' David says, voice dripping with disapproval. 'Really, I should've phoned the space police, but I was young.'

'What did you make up about it?' Brooker's still braced for take-off when David turns his attention back to the opposing team. 'What did David Mitchell: Tiny, Angry Chairman of the Residents' Association tell himself the lump of lorry really was?'

'And how old were you?' Harewood says.

David picks the artefact up and runs a thumb down a melted section. 'I was six or seven. I'd been watching _Hitchhiker's Guide_ and then my mother threw me out to get some fresh air, so when I tripped over what was _obviously_ a relic from a space battle, I took it home and wrote a frankly appalling story about the Doctor defeating the Vogons and missing a piece after obliterating the remains of the Vogon fleet. And then he found me and took me off in the TARDIS, of course.'

'Ooh,' Sarah leans in to give David a nudge. 'Want to trade fanfics after the show? Mine are all Tescos AUs, because I like to see my heroes brought low by economic hardship.'

That startles a laugh out of David, but before he can run with Sarah's pitch, Brooker clears his throat. David turns back towards him, fingers closing just a little too tightly on the artefact.

'Can I see it closer?' Brooker says, eyes lit with an almost manic glow.

David stands and crosses the stage, goes to pass it to Brooker before fleeing back behind his own desk, but the instant Charlie touches the metal there's an almighty shock that numbs David's whole arm and sends Brooker shooting backwards out of his chair with a shout.

He's vaguely aware of Brooker swearing and the artefact clanging to the floor, but for a long second all David can process is the confusion at _anything_ building a static charge like that.

'What was that?' Brydon's half out of his chair, concern bleeding through his usual smirk. 'Mitchell, you all right?'

'Fine,' David blinks down at the artefact. 'Some sort of static charge.'

The studio is unnervingly quiet, then Lee clears his throat.

'So is this the BBC props department planting those electric hand shockers in things or did David and Brooker just signal their overlords? David?' he turns to Harewood. ' _Or_ are these two having a go?'

Brooker's still wide- and wild-eyed, absently shaking his hand while he stares at David, so it's up to David to scoff.

'Oh yes, Lee,' he stoops and picks the artefact up, letting a quick huff of relief out when it doesn't try to kill him. 'I've now perfected the game: turning your own team against you.'

'All right, Lee,' Brydon claps as David settles back in his chair. 'Time to decide: truth or lie?'

'Brooker?' Lee says. 'You work with him almost as much as I do.'

David watches as Brooker visibly shakes himself, tearing his demented stare away from David with what looks like gargantuan effort. 'True. But if I wake up strapped to a table on the overlords' ship because I've now been marked, David, we'll be having _words_.'

Lee turns to Harewood and raises his eyebrows.

'I can _absolutely_ see David Mitchell deciding that some bit of stuff he tripped over was important enough to stop the fresh air torture and go write fanfic about himself and Doctor Who.'

'My team and I,' Lee says, grinning across the stage. 'Say truth.'

'David?' Brydon prompts, knocking his cue cards straight and smirking again. 'Truth or lie?'

'It was,' David waves his hand in a loose circle over the buzzer before bringing it down. 'A lie.'

The crowd roars with laughter as Lee mugs at camera 3, but all David can concentrate on is the itch of Brooker's intense stare on the side of his face.

****

David's still shaken by the time they finish re shooting the fuck-ups and taking the promo shots, but he's not too shaken to trundle off to the pub with the WILTY crew and that show's guests.

It would, frankly, take an actual alien abduction for him not to join in the little ritual of heading around the corner to the Fox and Sow. An _on-air_ abduction.

It's one of the necessary rituals of British working life, and one David usually enjoys.

He's a little quieter than usual, but when the group includes Lee Mack and Rob Brydon it's easy to be drowned out even if you _want_ to be heard. David gets his rounds in in turn, plays Sarah's hilarious drinking game that he's been sworn to secrecy about, engages in a brief and half-hearted post-mortem of the episode with Lee and generally tries not to be alone with Brooker.

Brooker, for his part, keeps _staring_ but from everyone else's lack of reaction David concludes this isn't actually out of character. Charlie's always intense; everyone's obviously used to him fixating on _something_ and **_look at me, you bastard_**.

David jerks in his seat, slopping lager over his wrist and the table. He's not sure where that last thought came from, but it's obviously time he called it a night. He'd probably coming down with something; that blasted electric prank from props gave him a delayed-onset migraine, maybe.

David makes his excuses to the crew still at the table, waves at Lee and Brydon, shrugs his coat back on and goes to find a taxi.

****

The next week is taken up with the usual cascading sequence of deadlines; articles almost-overdue, scripts to be revised and rehearsals to drag himself to.

The headache from the props prank fades, but doesn't exactly go away. David keeps feeling a sort of static in his mind, interspersed with flashes of emotion or sentence fragments that don't sound quite right.

He's considering phoning his doctor, much as he loathes taking to her, when his front door buzzes.

And keeps buzzing, like whoever is visiting hasn't figured out the etiquette of urban life and is just _leaning_ on the bloody button.

'Yes?' David snaps into the intercom when he reaches it.

'Mitchell, you fuck, buzz me in.'

It's Brooker, and he sounds on-edge in a way David hasn't heard before. David hits the entry buzzer and unlatches his door before going to unearth the emergency whisky he and Flatmate Rob keep stashed in the unused oven.

'You utter _cunt_ ,' is what Brooker announces himself with while David's still peering at the glasses beside the sink to try and determine whether they're all right for serving emergency whisky.

'Sorry?' David feels his brow crease in confusion, and he turns to frown at Brooker even though he knows it makes him look like a baffled puffin.

Brooker blows out a forceful breath and slams the door, leans against it with his hands pinned behind his arse. 'You said it was a lie.'

David, emergency whisky in one hand and possibly-diseased glass in the other says 'huh?'

'Your fucking alien gizmo,' Brooker snarls, but David's watching his lips and they don't move.

'Oh my fucking god,' David breathes. 'I can hear your _thoughts_?'

'And vice-fucking-versa,' Brooker says, out loud this time. 'I don't know how you did it, but you need to undo it.'

'It was a bloody BBC prop!' David snaps back, then his mind goes blank with horror, nothing but a sort of mosquito whine over a sea of roiling panic. Charlie winces and claps a hand to his head.

'Wow, OK, that's even _worse_! Could you please let yourself think about _something_?'

 _Something neutral,_ David chants to himself. _Rabbits! Or The Tube, good god this is even more invasive than rush hour and being crushed between sweaty City Wankers-_

Brooker snorts, and David reigns his train of thought in again, acutely conscious of his thoughts. It's not actually an unfamiliar mindset; he plays up the neurotic English thing, but the core of his public persona is true to life.

Now that he's not distracted by a hundred different projects, David can feel the oddly warm press of Brooker's thoughts. It's what's been causing the headache – well, that and several sleepless nights because of aforesaid deadlines.

'OK,' Brooker lets out a long breath, most of the tension leaving his form. 'Calm and quiet I can deal with until you fix this.'

'I don't see why its _my_ sole responsibility,' David shoots back, trying to run through the last week to figure out if he thought anything mortifying, but trying to do so without broadcasting his attempts.

'Would you _stop_ that?' Brooker glares again. 'For Christ's sake, David, I can't hear every thought you have! And you'd _know_ that if you'd just calm your tits for half an hour and listen for _mine_.'

With gargantuan effort, David tries to shove his neuroses to the side and just _be_ , but the conceit is too embarrassingly American and he's never been any good at switching his brain off.

 ** _Bloody alien technology_** , he can hear Brooker thinking. **_Why couldn't it have been replicators or a teleport? Ooh, spaceships! Not sodding non-consensual telepathic bonding._**

'Right,' David folds his arms. 'Because alien technology in the Beeb's props department is a more rational explanation than hallucinogens in the water supply-'

'You drink any water from the tap, Mitchell?' Brooker cuts in. 'Wouldn't they burn off when the kettle boils?'

'-or a psychotic break?' David glares. 'I could be drooling and kicking the walls in reality and all you can do is make snarky comments about _tea_? Maybe I've been _poisoned_ or we're high-'

 ** _Smoked many bowls today, David?_** Brooker smirks.

'The _point_ being,' David continues, mind and one hand flapping helplessly for a point he can really get behind. 'The point is that there's _no_ scientific justification, no feasible explanation for this mind reading thing to be _real_.'

 ** _The thing about science_** , and Brooker's just being obnoxious now, pointedly _thinking_ at David instead of talking like a civilised person. **_The odd thing about science is that when new evidence turns up – like, say, a pair of blokes who can hear each other's thoughts after touching a mysterious thing – when that evidence turns up, they generally evaluate it rather than hurling the idea onto the District Line at peak hour._**

'Who “they”?' David asks, feeling like a petulant teenager. 'And you've obviously never done any reading on the history of science; people are forever destroying samples that contradict them and sabotaging rivals.'

 ** _David,_** Brooker stares at him until David sags against the door frame. **_You can hear my fucking thoughts, you bell-end, and I can hear yours._**

Well, the bright side of David's little hissy fit is Brooker's looking rather more amused than homicidal now, and if David lets himself listen, there's a thread of **_that's the David Mitchell I know and love_** running through the back of his mind.

'Er...' David can feel himself flushing, so he falls back on a lifetime of training. 'Tea?'

'Thought I was a feature player in your psychotic break?' Brooker says, already pushing past David to get at his sofa. 'I'll take a beer if you've got one, and I know you do because I just heard you doing your inventory in your head. You are _odd_ , Mitchell.'

David scowls at the back of Brooker's head. 'Actually it's a normal person thing to do, keep track of shopping lists and foodstuffs to offer guests. And it's Flatmate Rob's lager, not mine.'

'So buy him replacements,' Brooker tips his head back over the sofa. 'You're a big shot TV star.'

David sighs, replaces the empty kettle on its base and gets two cans of lager out.

He rather feels he needs it, and Flatmate Rob shouldn't be back until tomorrow. Plenty of time to go buy more beer.

****

Of course, one can each turns into the rest of the six pack, then David brings over the emergency whiskey and everything turns into a bit of a blur.

He wakes up hunched over Brooker's snoring form, a crick not only in his neck but in every single place he's usually capable of bending. Brooker makes a pained noise as David extricates himself with the grace and speed of a Soviet-made tank, but he settles into the sofa cushions without actually waking up.

David takes in the completely-empty emergency whiskey, the six scattered lager cans and the detritus of what looks like about forty quid's worth of curry.

'Could we just not decide and ordered one of _everything_?' David's almost impressed, but then indigestion and the hangover catch up with the fact he's upright now and he has to run to make it to the toilet in time.

Five minutes heaving, followed by five minutes brushing his teeth and David's feeling human again. He takes a medium-quick shower, then goes to check on Brooker.

'I'm going to go find out where props got the Thing,' he announces. 'Can you handle tea or should I try and find a tin of coffee?'

Brooker groans and lifts his head about an inch to beat it against the sofa. 'Coffee, ta. Four spoons of it, five of sugar. And a shotgun so I can get rid of this headache.'

David rootles around and manages to turn up a dusty bottle of Nescafe which hasn't turned entirely solid, makes his own double bagged tea and dismisses the idea of dry toast as tempting fate.

Brooker's hauled himself upright by the time the kettle's boiled, so they slurp at their cups in awkward silence, the rumble of Brooker's thoughts muted and incoherent and strangely comforting. He's feeling just as embarrassed as David, if more resigned, and it's nice for once not to feel like a neurotic freak.

'Oh, you're neurotic and a freak,' Brooker smirks over his mug. 'It's just that I am too.'

'Outstanding,' David finishes his cup, leaves it by the sink and goes to find a coat. When he comes out of his bedroom, Brooker's vanished, leaving the sludgy remains of his coffee and a faint feeling of camaraderie in the back of David's mind.

He takes a moment to shove the salvageable leftovers in the fridge, then heads for the tube.

****

Whether it's standard laziness, because Peter liked the look of it, or because someone was worried David and Brooker might drop dead, the artefact is in Peter's office.

David ducks in to grab it, nearly causes an avalanche of the paperwork Peter insists on getting in hard copy, and escapes without running into anyone expecting an explanation for his presence on a grey Monday morning.

He heads down to the props department, trying and mostly succeeding at keeping from blithering internally about the irrationality of what he's about to ask.

He knocks once, then steps into the cluttered room that serves as storage and last-minute manufacturing centre as well as props' office. Of the seven prop masters who inhabit the room, David has his fingers mentally crossed for Tanvir, who is jovial and usually at least a little high and so the least likely of the potential occupants to mock him.

But it's Richard, the crazy-eyed, wild-bearded Glaswegian prop master who glares up at David from inside a sort of pirate chest. He seems to be gluing what David hopes are fake entrails in place for reasons David really hopes he never finds out.

'Er,' David says, turning the artefact over a few nervous times. He's here now, though, so he nerves himself up and just spits it out. 'This may sound daft, but did someone perhaps send a genuine alien artefact down for WILTY to use last week? Or, um, I suppose magic is another option?'

Richard does the mad expression David usually associates with prospectors in American Old West films where he squints one eye but widens the other so David can count the blood vessels like some sort of hangover version of tree rings.

'Aye,' Richard jerks his chin at the artefact. 'We ain't got the fundin' to build every bit o' tat you lot ask for. So sometimes y' get the real deal.'

'Oh,' David blinks. He'd known, really, that it was true, but that didn't stop the overwhelming feeling of denial at the absurdity. 'The BBC uses genuine alien artefacts for props. Of course.'

'Well,' Richard sits back on his haunches and waves a bit of intestine. 'What d'ye sassenach bastards expect when every week's another funding cut? Only money available's earmarked for Doctor Who, so ye'll take what we gives ye.'

There isn't really a great deal David can think to say to that. 'Oh.'

'Aye,' Richard repeats, then he heaves a sigh. 'But I can tell y' where the supplier o' that piece is. Bloody man's supposed to turn the things off before delivery, but what can y' do?'

'Change suppliers, I'd've thought,' David says, but he takes the scribbled directions Richard offers and retreats back to his flat before anyone can try and talk to him.

****

Brooker insists on coming along to meet the BBC's alien artefact supplier, which saves David from demanding he come along. From the way Brooker's lips twitch, David knows that thought bled through.

But the man meets his clients in an _underpass_ in Hackney of all places, so David is less than usually ashamed of his nerves.

The underpass stinks of urine and recently-sprayed paint; probably from the slightly runny cock and balls scrawled over an imitation Banksy.

'Ahh,' Brooker nudges David with his elbow. 'The scent of _real_ London.'

'Eau de ASBO,' David retorts before jumping as someone in a luridly purple shell suit comes in through the other end of the tunnel.

'David fuckin' Mitchell, innit?' he sniffs violently and comes towards them with the weird gait particular to young men whose trousers are three sizes too big. 'Oi, bangin' eh?! You well fierce!'

All David can think is _oh god, the Beeb buys alien technology from an uber-chav_. The horrified mirth he feels is matched by Brooker's and it takes a concerted effort to pull himself out of the burgeoning echo chamber of their shared appalled amusement.

'Yer want somefink?' the alien-dealing chav moves closer to squint at them.

David shakes himself and pulls the artefact out of his pocket. 'Can you help us with this?'

'Eey,' he throws his hands up. 'I dun't give no refunds, all sales is final, innit.'

'No,' David holds his free hand up. 'I don't want a refund, I want to reverse its effects. Can you shut it off?'

'Not really my bag,' he shrugs one shoulder. 'Just the middle man, yeah.'

'Well can you tell me who I _should_ be speaking to?' David snaps. 'Being non-consensually brain fused is more than a little inconvenient.'

'Give over,' the chav snorts. 'Dun't work like that.'

'I beg to differ,' David says, retreating into stiff Englishness. 'Please tell me how to contact someone who _can_ help.'

The chav rolls his eyes. 'I'll log a job wiv 'ead office for yer, but I'm tellin' yer it dun't work like that. Failsafes and shit, innit?'

David straightens his shoulders to keep from giving in to the urge to slam his head against the wall of the tunnel. 'Fine. Log a job.'

'Hang on,' Brooker narrows his eyes and takes a step forward. 'How do we know you're the right person to be speaking to?'

'Aight bruv,' the chav grins and jerks his chin at Brooker. 'Yer want I should turn off my camo field? I gotcha.'

He does something to the horrid lumpy chain around his neck, and suddenly it feels like David's brain has been turned inside-out. The effect is magnified by Brooker's shock and David retches.

'Human brains ain't good at cross-dimensional input,' the chav says once he's turned his camo field back on. 'If yer puke, aim away from me, yeah?'

' _Jesus Christ_ ,' Brooker breathes. ' _Holy fucking shit_. HP sodding Lovecraft, much?'

'Wicked, eh?' the chav winks, which makes David's stomach turn again remembering the _thing_ behind the mask. 'Oi, can I get a selfie wiv yer before yer go?'

David goes through the familiar motions, smile even weaker than usual as the chav slings an arm around his neck and mugs for his own phone camera. Brooker's thoughts are a strangely calm but furiously fast babble he can't get a hold on, but frankly David's own thoughts are in panic mode right now too.

'Name's Kyle, FYI,' the chav says, pocketing his phone and heading back the way he'd come. 'If them upstairs does that fuckin' survey again.'

'Right,' David grabs Brooker by the arm, probably a little too tight from the way his knuckles creak, and they head back to the overground station at just under a run.

Brooker's Oyster card's out of funds, so David hangs around while Brooker does battle to make the machine accept his tenner, relishing the blank calm of whatever advanced hysteria he's suffering from now.

They get on the first train heading West, and wind up changing to the underground and heading out to Brooker's Ealing flat without discussion. Flatmate Rob's supposed to be home, and David really wants to have the oncoming breakdown in private. Well, privately with Brooker. They can take turns gibbering and attempting awkward soothing pats on each others' backs.

Brooker stops at an off-license, thoughts starting to calm down, and they head inside Brooker's dark and comfortably-messy flat with a brand new bottle of whiskey.

'So,' Brooker unearths a couple of clean glasses from the dishwasher and pours them each a heavy slug. 'I may not have been as prepared for actual aliens as I thought I was.'

David fiddles with his glass and sighs. 'I don't know whether any preparation would've been sufficient to stop me screaming like... well, like myself ages two through twenty-two.'

'A screamer, are you?' Brooker makes an effort to leer, but winds up dropping onto his sofa with a sigh of his own.

David joins him, sipping cautiously at the whiskey. 'This is insane. Brooker, are we _absolutely_ positive we're neither of us locked up in a psych ward?'

 ** _I'm pretty bloody certain I'd never have come up with what “Kyle” looked like without copious psychotropics_** Brooker thinks, loudly enough to drown out David's still-simmering panic. **_And I think we're past the point of surnames, David._** ' _Mi cabron es su cabron_ , after all.'

David squints at him. 'I didn't know you spoke Spanish.'

Brooker- _Charlie_ laughs. 'I don't. But American telly is filled with bits and pieces. I'm not even sure _cabron_ is “head”.'

David smiles at him and takes a deep breath. 'All right. So the BBC's alien artefact dealer has tech support and we're waiting on a service rep.'

Putting it in those terms does wonders for dispelling David's nerves, and from the loosening of Charlie's thoughts he guesses it's a shared relief.

'Apparently,' Charlie tops their drinks up and fishes a remote from between sofa cushions. 'Wanna watch something brainlesss while we wait for the call?'

David feels like requesting something he needs to concentrate on to make sure he doesn't think anything grossly embarrassing, but actually. 'Obnoxious louts falling in the wa'er?'

Charlie rolls his eyes, but finds an episode of _Wipeout_ anyway.

****

David wakes up with late afternoon sun slanting through the window and has to spend a long moment remembering where he is. He levers himself upright from Charlie's sofa and rubs at his eyes. It's been a while since he crashed out on anyone's sofa except Rob's, and that's always in the mad rush to finish a script these days.

Charlie seems to have gone to take his own nap in bed like a proper adult, so David putters around finding and making some tea to get the taste of old whiskey and cushion out of his mouth.

It's actually rather pleasant hearing the sleepy rumble of Charlie's thoughts, he decides after his second cup. Certainly less stressful when Charlie's asleep and unlikely to pick up on David's little crush, but if he hasn't punched David by now he's unlikely to. Perhaps he doesn't even know, David muses, not sure whether to feel proud of his control or like a total tit for his rampant repression. He's been too wound up to indulge in his usual-but-infrequent fantasies, but surely anyone could tell from the way he keeps forcefully redirecting his thoughts that he's hiding something.

The warm swell and ebb of Charlie's thoughts shifts a little, like a sigh right in David's ear and he's struck by a sudden sensation of lips on his neck. He claps a hand over the spot, but the ghostly lips are joined by hands on his waist and a pleased sense of anticipation.

 ** _David..._** he hears, like a whisper, and David realises he's hearing Charlie dream. _Feeling_ him dream, which is such a surprise it takes him far too long to register _what_ Charlie's dreaming.

His surprise must be like a mental shout, because all of a sudden, Charlie's awake and horrified and scrambling out of his bedroom and into the kitchen to stare at David in dismay.

'I...' David can feel how he's turned beetroot-red. Charlie's a matching colour, and apparently he sleeps in boxers and a t-shirt; _tented_ boxers and David feels like he's falling-

'Shit,' Charlie sags against the wall beside his fridge, one hand shoved into his wild hair. 'Bollocks. David, I'm so-'

David makes a desperate noise and dives forward, slamming himself full-length into Charlie. He licks his way into Charlie's mouth before Charlie gets with the programme and slides his hands up David's back. Charlie moans, pushes his knee between David's and then it _actually_ feels like the world shifts; David had always thought that to be an egregious bit of purple prose, but apparently Charlie Brooker's hard-on pressing into his own is enough to simulate an earthquake.

'Er,' someone says and David flings himself away from Charlie with a yelp.

'What the _fuck?!_ ' Charlie says, echoing David's less-coherent shriek.

They are not in Charlie's dingy flat any more, and from the view out the distressingly-large window, David starts to think they aren't even on _Earth_ any longer.

'Was it a bad time?' the interlocutor says, fidgeting with something that looks like a classic Star Trek phaser. 'Only Kyle logged a job for you marked “urgent”.'

'Er...' David folds his hands over his crotch and glances over at Charlie. Charlie's knocking his head gently against the wall with his eyes closed, but his thoughts are more frustration at the interruption than regret, which is a bit of a weight off. 'We mind-melded after touching something Kyle provided the BBC, but I wasn't holding it when you... beamed us up?'

'Huh,' their abductor (and oh, how David wishes he hadn't mentally phrased it like that, even if Charlie _is_ now snickering like a thirteen year old) says. 'Thing looks like space battle slag?'

'Ha!' David raises one victorious fist. 'Take _that_ , Lee! An actual alien thinks it looks like space battle debris!'

'Actually,' Abductor puts his phaser down on a nearby table. 'I saw the show. I'm Jeremy, by the by; big fan of yours.'

 ** _So you've found your core demographic, then_** , Charlie thinks in a tone that conveys his smirk. **_Lovecraftian horrors in chav suits hocking leftover tech to the bloody props department._**

David ignores him and pastes a smile on for Jeremy. 'Always a pleasure. Now, can you help us? I'd quite like to turn off the telepathy, if it's not too much trouble.'

Jeremy scratches at his eyebrow and cocks his head to one side, then the other. 'You linked? 's not s'posed to happen; there's failsafes even if Kyle forgot to take the batteries out.'

'Apparently the failsafes... failed,' Charlie puts in, but David can tell that the grumpy tone is one hundred per cent for show. 'Funny how sod's law's turning out to be universal.'

'Huh,' Jeremy blinks at them. 'I guess you could file a bug report?'

'Yes, but can you _fix_ it?!' David throws his hands up. 'Much as I like Charlie, I really don't want to spend the rest of my life sharing his every waking and sleeping thought!'

'Oh, very nice,' Charlie mock-sulks. 'My mother was right about you.'

'We-ell,' Jeremy scratches at the patchy stubble on his chin. 'Fixing it all depends on whether or not you've fucked already.'

The wave of pure English embarrassment that floods over David is at least half from Charlie; it's so strong he actually chokes on the words. 'Not... er.. uh... not yet?'

Jeremy grins at their discomfort. 'Lemon squeezy, then! The bond thing's only permanent if you fuck, but I'll have to check with my supervisor how long it'll last. It's only s'posed to be for, like, super religious married couples or teenage berks.'

'Wonderful,' David glances at Charlie and his cock reminds him of their unfinished business. 'Er... could you check how long we need to stay celibate, too?'

Jeremy outright snickers and retreats across the room to make his call. David shuffles over to stand by Charlie, not quite close enough to touch, but close enough that he can feel Charlie's body heat along his side.

'So I guess it's a good thing I didn't jump you any of the fifty-odd times I wanted to,' Charlie says, eyes forward like he's on the world's most lax military parade.

David lets out an almost-laugh. 'Likewise. I take it you're not planning on running screaming to the Isle of Man once Jeremy lets us go?'

'Someone fled the country on you?' Charlie grins his crooked grin. 'Impressive. I've only ever scared girls out of the county before.'

David rolls his eyes, but he lets himself bask in the hum of amused affection radiating from Charlie. He's still got the low burn of arousal going, but now that it's not tied up with nerves about never being alone in his own head he can relax and enjoy it. There's something to be said for knowing exactly where you stand with someone you're potty over.

'My _blushes_ ,' Charlie says, but he actually _is_ blushing, so David smiles at him and repeats the thought.

'Oh, flippin' heck,' Jeremy says. 'I thought you said you _weren't_ teenage berks. Knock the feelings off, will yer? It's nauseating.'

David straightens up, freshly flustered. 'No, that is, I-'

Jeremy rolls his eyes. ' _Humans_. Anyway, I just called Head Office and they told me the debonder's out of comms range. Some diplomatic blah-blah with a sentient solar system, so it's gonna have to be a case of “don't call us, we'll call you”.'

David opens his mouth to point out that that is _not at all acceptable, Jeremy_ , but something jerks sideways and he and Charlie are back in Charlie's kitchen.

'Hey!' Charlie yells at his ceiling.

'Remember,' Jeremy's voice floats from next to the toaster. 'No fucking unless you wanna stay bonded.'

'Well, fuck,' David says, and Charlie moans his agreement.

****

Someone somewhere must like David, though, because it's only three days later that he's suddenly not sitting in bed reading his twitter feed, but rather back in front of Jeremy. He scrambles to his feet and wishes he'd worn socks to bed; the floor on Jeremy's space station is _cold_.

Charlie pops into existence five seconds later, wilder-haired than usual and looking more than a little peaky. David's been trying to send him some sort of comforting vibes or thoughts or whatever, but it seems like Charlie's insomnia has been triggered by the stress of not fucking David.

Which is a fantastically ego-stroking thought, even if David has been getting a little worried Charlie might collapse or explode.

'Aye-eh,' Jeremy waves something that looks like a bedazzled hair-dryer, minus the power cord. 'Your lucky week, innit?'

David and Charlie _both_ trip over their own feet, then each other's in their hurry to get closer to the debonder.

'That keen, are yer?' Jeremy fiddles with a giant, fluorescent green sparkly bit on the hair-dryer and then aims it at David. 'On three, yeah? One, two, three.'

Everything goes slightly wonky for a moment, then David promptly throws up all over Jeremy's shoes.

'Fuck!' Jeremy screws his face up and glares down at his trainers. 'These were my best converse!'

David, too elated at the sudden ringing silence in his head replies 'I'll buy you new ones. I'll buy you _five_.'

Mollified, but still grumbling, Jeremy repeats the hair-dryer thing with Charlie, though he makes sure to stay well back. Charlie groans and grabs at his stomach, but manages to keep his supper down. David feels like his face is at risk of peeling off and flapping around if he smiles any wider, so he coughs and makes an effort to pull himself together.

'Thank you,' he nods to the puddle of sick. 'And, uh... terribly sorry.'

Jeremy makes a disgusted noise and tosses the hair-dryer onto a desk. 'I'm holding you to the new trainers. Size eleven. Get something awesome, like flames or Spider-Man or summat, yeah?'

'Of course,' David makes a mental note. 'Charlie?'

Charlie grunts and straightens up. 'Let's do that again _never_.'

Jeremy gives his trainers another disgusted look, then David finds himself standing on his mattress. Yelping, he overbalances into the lamp and collapses with a groan. Five minutes of pained swearing later, his mobile starts vibrating towards the edge of his bedside table.

'No more space marriage!' Charlie says when David picks up. 'We can _fuck!_ '

'Right now?' David blinks, then squints at the clock. 'It's ten to midnight.'

There's silence for a while, which gives David the leeway to landed-fish flop himself into a more dignified position on his bed.

'Well, obviously not _right_ now,' Charlie says, in a quiet tone that still conveys his disappointment at David's refusal. 'Though, you ought to remember that cabs are a thing and you aren't _actually_ seventy, David. We're easily young enough to stay up until three-'

'You might be,' David interrupts before Charlie can make enough of a fuss that he caves. 'But I have an early meeting with Webb and several producers, and I'd really rather not rush through the first time.'

'Oh,' Charlie says and just breathes down the phone line.

David chews at his lip and wishes he were even a little more reckless than he is. 'Are you free tomorrow night? Flatmate Rob's home, but I could come round? At, say, six?'

'Yes, six, of course!' it sounds like Charlie drops something, and from the brief round of “fuck-fuck-bugger-fuckity”, David guesses he dropped it on himself.

'All right,' David grins at his ceiling. 'I'll see you then?'

Charlie's still swearing, but he does get in a confirmation before David ends the call.

David grins like an idiot for a long time, lying across the top of his duvet, but he really does have an early meeting. He hauls himself upright, still grinning, to go rebrush his teeth, then goes to sleep.

He's lucky Flatmate Rob's already gone to bed, otherwise all this grinning might have gotten him a trip to A&E on the assumption he'd had a stroke.

****

David hardly notices anything the whole day, from the first heinously-early meeting to the regular three PM WILTY planning session.

He's vaguely aware of most of the London BBC offices staring at him, a few of the higher-strung ones edging away from him, but he spends most of the day in a useless haze of arousal.

He races home for a shower and a change, stops by an off-licence to spend a little too much on a bottle of wine, and finds himself on Charlie's doorstep at a quarter-to.

Charlie, when he opens the door, is even more wild-haired than usual, and behind him his living room looks as though his DVD cabinet exploded. David thrusts the wine at him, for want of a smoother opening and then the full awkwardness of their situation comes crashing down on him.

'Er...' he blinks a few times. 'May I come in?'

Charlie stares, then jerkily moves to one side, clutching the wine against his ribs. He sweeps his free hand in a welcome gesture, but clearly isn't paying much attention since he flails his wrist into the door frame.

David flails in a sort of sympathy coordination-failure as Charlie tries to choke back more curses, then their eyes meet and they lose all composure in a storm of helpless laughter.

'You'd best come in,' Charlie manages after far too long, turning to head inside. David follows him into the kitchen.

'Er,' Charlie says when he's put the wine down on the counter, once again lost.

David makes an executive decision and employs his patented technique of drunk lunging, minus the drunk part, and he and Charlie crash into Charlie's fridge.

'Sorry, sorry,' David mutters and tries again, this time with less momentum. Charlie leans forward at the same time and their foreheads knock.

'Ow,' Charlie raises a hand to rub at his face. 'OK. How about we move this to the bedroom?'

David nods in what he hopes comes across as a decisive rather than desperate manner and steps back to let Charlie move.

In the bedroom, David is hit with a sudden awareness of the fact that he and Charlie really are about to have sex. He stumbles over his own feet, and is saved from pitching face-first into Charlie's towering pile of bedside reading by an arm sliding around his waist.

Charlie manoeuvres David around so they're facing each other and gives him an embarrassed grin. 'Hi.'

'Hi,' David says in reply, and oh. _Yes_ , kissing works.

David relaxes and slides his hands over Charlie's waist, which gets him a pleased little hum and Charlie shifting a little in a way that drags his faint stubble over David's carefully-shaven cheek. David shudders and gasps, and Charlie starts walking them over to his bed.

David tugs Charlie's t-shirt up, shoves until Charlie raises his arms, then tosses it to one side. He lets his hands run over Charlie's chest before he lifts his hands to his own collar and starts undoing buttons. Charlie joins in, starting at the bottom edge of David's shirt, and the brush of his knuckles against David's belly combined with his quickening breath against David's cheek is enough to bring David all the way to full mast.

Charlie's eyes light up when he realises, and he abandons his work on David's buttons to cup one big hand over David's cock. 'Hello there.'

Charlie thumbs David's fly open and David loses a few minutes because his grip is _perfect_ and he starts nuzzling at David's throat...

'Lie down,' Charlie says, pulling back just a little. 'I want to blow you.'

Well, David's only human. He kicks his shoes off, fumbles the last few buttons on his shirt open, shoves his trousers and pants down and scrambles onto Charlie's bed. He's still got his socks on, but from the way Charlie's eyes darken, David's pretty sure that's not a deal breaker.

Charlie sheds his own jeans and uses his hands to push David's knees apart to make room for himself. He runs his hands down David's thighs and bends to bring his mouth to David's cock, but his fingers catch in a patch of hair on David's leg and it hurts so suddenly that David yelps and kicks out.

He feels the crack more than hears it, and then Charlie's falling backwards off the bed clutching at his face.

'Oh my god!' David's hands fly up to his mouth and he stares in dismay. 'Oh, I'm so terribly sorry-'

'Jesus _Christ_ , Mitchell,' Charlie groans, crawling back onto the bed, still cradling his cheek where David's knee clocked him. 'Do I need to tie you down?'

David gives Charlie a quick once-over to assess the damage, but he's still mostly hard and not even glaring, so obviously a black eye isn't a kick-out-able offence.

'Are you OK?' he asks, because his knee is aching a bit so Charlie's face has got to be pounding.

Charlie nods, but he's still wincing so David sits up to grab Charlie by the shoulders and pushes at him until he's the one lying down with David kneeling between his legs.

Figuring that panicked lunging has brought him this far, David bends forward and closes his mouth around the head of Charlie's cock. It's a strange sensation at first, the weight and the taste of it. David pulls back, wrapping one hand around the base and glances up at Charlie's face. He's gaping in a very flattering manner, so David decides to keep going.

He licks over the head, trying to think back to the woefully-infrequent blow jobs in his past to remember what felt the best. Stroking his tongue over the prominent vein along the underside makes Charlie's hips jerk, so David does it again before closing his lips around the first inch or so and sucking. He slides down a little, careful to keep his lips over his teeth, then pulls back to repeat.

It's starting to work for David, the taste of Charlie's skin and the little gasping moans Charlie's making. He's tensing under David's hands, Charlie's hands reaching down to pet at David's hair and _that's_ unexpectedly nice too...

David wonders what it feels like taking a cock all the way, and he's doing pretty well at this whole shallow-bobbing thing, so he opens his mouth and presses forward a little too enthusiastically.

'Fuck, you OK?' Charlie says five seconds later as David's spluttering and coughing and trying to stop his eyes watering. 'David?'

''m fine,' David manages after he's caught his breath. 'Humiliated, but fine.'

He glances at Charlie's cock, spit-shiny and still mostly-hard and thinks about resuming the blow job. So long as he keeps to his established skill level, it should work-

'No,' Charlie grabs David's wrist and tugs him up so they're lying side-by-side, facing each other. 'I think we need to keep it remedial. If we try anything more complicated, I'm afraid we'll either burn my flat down or die.'

David nods, and wraps his hand around Charlie's cock. Charlie reciprocates.

The angle is strange, but the action too familiar for even either of them to fuck it up, so after they're settled into matching rhythms David adds kissing back into the mix. They go slow, and David makes sure not to bump against the blossoming bruise on Charlie's cheek.

It's nice, and David's surprised by his own orgasm when it happens, a spreading warmth in his belly that spills over gently as he gasps against Charlie's mouth. Charlie follows him a few strokes later and they share another lazy kiss before they pull apart.

Charlie smiles, a crooked expression because of the bruise. 'Not bad, Mitchell. We should do this again sometime.'

'Clearly we both need practice,' David agrees, wiping the come off his hand on the sheet between them and settling his hand on Charlie's waist. 'But not the most disastrous sex I've had.'

Charlie laughs and nods. 'Me either. Didn't break my nose _or_ set anything on fire.'

David nods solemnly. 'Nor did anyone have to call emergency services to get let back into their home.'

'No rope burn,' Charlie adds, shifting forward to nose at David's throat. 'No sudden appearances of anyone's parents.'

'No accidental exhibitionism,' David brushes his lips over Charlie's ear. 'Um... and no post-orgasmic regret, either.'

'None of that,' Charlie agrees. 'Apart from the fact I have to change my sheets now.'

David's starting to feel a little uncomfortable too, so they separate and take turns in the bathroom, strip the stained sheet off the mattress and toss it towards Charlie's laundry hamper. Charlie hunts out a clean sheet, and together they manage to wrestle it onto the bed.

David settles in, curling himself around Charlie after Charlie's turned the lights off. Charlie curls his fingers around David's and they drift off to sleep, even though it's only seven.

David's last thought before he drops off is that he's _really_ looking forward to practising this gay sex thing with Charlie.

Practice, after all, makes perfect.

**Six months later...**

'Charlie,' Brydon says, turning towards David's desk and he grins. 'It's you.'

Charlie pulls the card out, reads it through once, and lets out a bark of laughter.

'Ooh,' Lee leans back in his chair, swivelling a couple of times. 'This'll be good.'

Charlie aims a smirk at David.

'David Mitchell once blacked my eye.'

**Author's Note:**

> The Peter mentioned is Peter Holmes, Executive Producer on WILTY. I have no knowledge of any of his habits or his personality, so consider this even more in the realm of wild imagination than the rest of this.
> 
> I couldn't find anything about Charlie's flat's location, so I just made it up.


End file.
